


Referral

by loversandantiheroes



Series: Case History [7]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Implied Bad/Abusive Relationship, Light Angst, Medical Procedures, Mild Fluff, Overstimulation, Past Relationship Baggage, Rating May Change, all plot no porn, don't worry guys I found the porn, dunk on lewis 2020, small town gossip, so far anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandantiheroes/pseuds/loversandantiheroes
Summary: With the Spirit's Eve festival in one week and flu season underway, you and Harvey have your hands well and truly full, and you find that Pelican Town's rumor mill has barely even gotten started.
Relationships: Harvey/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Harvey/Reader
Series: Case History [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399258
Comments: 93
Kudos: 486





	1. Chapter 1

Shane pulls in just as you polish off your second cup of coffee, bleating out a warbly rendition of shave-and-a-haircut on his horn. As soon as his tires roll to a stop Abigail pops out of the passenger side like a violet-haired jack-in-the-box, followed by a far less enthusiastic Alex, who, despite the fact that it’s barely dipped into the 40s, has his beanie rolled down clear over his ears.

“First dibs!” Abigail shouts, racing up to the porch as you poke your head out into the chill morning air. 

Grinning, you fish the keys out of your pocket and disconnect the ring with the out building keys. “One for a pie, one for a jack o’ lantern, alright? Try to leave some for the rest of the Valley.”

“Mer-cee boo-kwet,” Abigail says with a mock-curtsy, snatching the keys up and sprinting off for the shed, Alex trailing after.

“Mornin’ Phil,” Shane calls as he makes his way towards the steps. “Did your bed survive the weekend, or are we hauling scrap metal up to Clint?”

“Held up just fine, shitbird, and a good morning to you, too. How’re _you_ holding up?”

He looks a little rough still - you reckon he’s probably going to look rough for awhile yet - but his cheeks are clean shaven and there is at least a little color in his face. 

“Rickety and a bit fucked. So probably about the same.”

“Twerp.”

“Yessim.”

You gesture towards the storage shed. “Think you can keep an eye on things for me for a few minutes? I need to run into town real quick.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “What, you need to grab a hot cuppa Harvo to start the day?”

You snort a little, pulling your coat on. “Not quite.”

As if on cue, Harvey steps up behind you, smiling nervously as he wraps a scarf around his neck. “Good morning.”

“I’ve got a to-go cup,” you say, waving over your shoulder.

There’s a long moment of silence before Shane lets out a hoarse laugh. “Yeah, fuck it, I can hold down the fort while you drop off Casanova.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m an alcoholic, Phil, not an invalid,” Shane says with a twist to his mouth that suggests the statement _is_ supposed to be a joke, even if it’s a poor one. “Honestly it’s fine. Go do what you gotta do.”

“You’re a _star.”_ He doesn’t pull away when you throw your arms around his shoulders, but as you pull away you catch his eyes darting to Harvey and away again.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Get outta here and put the mustache back where it belongs before the soccer moms show up. I’m not dealing with the Karen Brigade on my own, I don’t care how much you pay me.”

“Back in a flash,” you insist, hurrying towards your truck. “There’s more coffee! Help yourself!”

You’re climbing up into the cab before you realize Harvey hasn’t followed. He’s paused there at the door with Shane, head bent low in conversation. Shane has his back to you, but you can see enough of Harvey to tell that whatever Shane’s said has him a little flustered. He nods, mutters something, gestures towards the truck with the hand holding his coat. Shane pats him roughly on the arm and slips inside the cabin, disappearing from sight.

“Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes everything’s fine.” He offers a smile, but there’s a thoughtful pinch to his face all the same. 

“You sure?”

He frowns, then nods, face crashing through at least six expressions before settling on a roughshod smile. “Yeah, no, yeah. Yes. It’s fine.”

He’s not a good liar. But there is a set to his face that says whatever it is, he isn’t inclined to talk about it.

“Doctor/patient privileges?”

He nods. “Something like that.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

Harvey sighs, settling back into the seat with a little resignation. “We should probably get going. It’s going to be a long day for the both of us.”

You give a distasteful groan. “If you insist.”

There’s near silence in the cab of the truck as you drive. Harvey’s hand rests on your leg. You’re grateful for the touch. You’d pull him half into your lap if he wouldn’t protest the disregard to safety. 

When the outline of the clinic comes into view up ahead, just past where the gravel gives way to cobblestone, the hand on your leg gives a single, desperate squeeze.

The Spirit’s Eve decorations are already going up, black and orange pennants strung between the old black street lamps and pinned to the eaves of buildings. The community bulletin board in front of Pierre’s is crowded with flyers for both the Spirit’s Eve festivities and next month’s fair, which the Mayor has sent you no less than three letters reminding you about.

“Festive,” you say as you roll to a stop.

Harvey makes a quiet sound that might be an agreement. His eyes are fixed on his lap, eyebrows knotted together.

“Listen,” he says slowly, working the words free as if tangled in them. “Before I go I just want to tell you...I...these past few days with you have been absolutely wonderful. And I, I just wanted to thank you. F-for everything.”

There's a look on his face now - nervous as ever but achingly _open_ \- that leaves a growing lightness in your chest. “It was my pleasure, Harvey. I hope that means we can do this again.”

He swallows hard, fighting back a grin. “I’d like that. I, uh, I rather think I’d like to make a habit of it.”

“I’d like that too. I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Wednesday,” he agrees, unable to hide the tinge of misery in his voice.

“It’s only a couple days.” You’re not sure if that’s meant to reassure him or yourself. Your bed is going to feel far too big and far too empty when you crawl back into it tonight.

His grip loosens. “I know.” He lets out a breath that hitches into a half-hearted and maudlin chuckle. Even his sadness is old-fashioned. “It’s silly.”

“Maybe.” You cover his hand with your own. “Still going to miss you.”

He looks up, eyes searching your face, and whatever he finds there drains away a little of that misery. “I’ll miss you, too,” he says softly.

It’s the truth, but it carries another truth inside it like cargo, like a nesting doll, like a secret.

You stretch across the seat for a kiss. And then another. And another. He still tastes of coffee, and you could swear a faint hint of your shampoo still lingers on him.

“I have to go.” The words are muffled, half-whispered into your mouth.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Yeah, me too.”

Neither of you move.

“I don’t want to,” he says with a hopeless sort of laugh. 

There are people in the square now. Sam wandering by in his Joja hat and smock. Caroline and Jodi taking their usual spot on the picnic tables with a thermos of Caroline’s tea. If he’s noticed them, he gives no sign of it. All his attention right now is locked on you and whatever spare seconds he can spend with you.

You touch the side of his face, fingers grazing the scar at his temple, thumb stroking his cheek. “Me either.”

The look he gives you is not quite a smile, but it carries the same sort of softness, and he rests his forehead against yours with a sigh. “What time is it?”

You glance over at the dashboard. “Almost eight.”

A nod. He tugs at your hand. “Five more minutes?” he asks hopefully.

You glance past him out the window to where Caroline and Jodi sit sipping their tea and making only the barest effort to _not_ look like they are staring directly at your truck.

“We have an audience,” you tell him gently. 

Harvey half-turns, blanching as he catches sight of the two women across the square. There’s a pinch to his features when he turns back to you that looks so very much like the approach of an apology. But then his eyes skim down past your face to where the locket hangs, and that worried look lifts and settles into something like resolution.

“I don’t care,” he says with all the breathless wonder of a man declaring a miracle.

“Well then,” you say, voice catching only a little on the lump in your throat. “Five more minutes.”

There’s still a tension to him as he pulls you close - uncertainty cowed for the moment, but not gone - but his arms wrap around you without hesitation.

You stay that way, forehead-to-forehead, eyes half-closed. Occasionally there is the warm press of his lips against your cheek, but mostly you just sit there, shoring each other up, stealing the last few moments away.

The time goes far too quickly.

“I have to go.” This time it’s your line, and just as hesitant from your lips as from his. “They’re waiting for me.”

“Can...can I call you?” he asks clumsily as you part, brow furrowed as though it’s only just occurred to him that he can actually do that.

The question is so hopelessly earnest there’s little you can do but laugh. “I should certainly hope so.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll, I’ll call you tonight,” he says with a slow-blooming smile.

“Something to look forward to.”

He shifts his bag into his lap, gets a hand on the door handle. And then before he can even get the door open he’s turning back, muttering “One more,” before hurriedly covering your mouth with his own.

⁂

“What was the Doc doing out here anyway?” Alex’s voice rings out a little too loudly. The door to the storage shed is propped open, and as you approach you see your two hired helpers hunched over a wheelbarrow they’ve been loading with the cured pumpkins. “She sick or something?”

Your fingers go to your neck unconsciously, twisting the locket on its chain.

Abigail cranes her neck to look up at him, eyebrows raised. “I mean I doubt they were out here all weekend playing Scrabble.”

“All weekend?”

“Yeah, dingus.”

There is a long moment of silence before Alex’s eyebrows ratchet up skyward. _“No.”_

“Yeah,” Abigail affirms with a nod.

“You sure they’re not just-”

“Dude, trust me, alright? We’re basically in the same building as Harvey, and he really needs a mattress with quieter springs.”

“Holy shit,” Alex says thoughtfully. “Harvey fucks. Good job, old dude. So are they _together_ together?”

 _“She gave him a bouquet,”_ Abigail says slowly. She shakes her head, loading another pair of pumpkins onto the wheelbarrow. “What kind of rock are you living under? I swear this is the only thing anybody’s talked about all week.”

“I’ve been busy,” Alex insists, shoulders straightening. “Y’know. School stuff.” 

An awkward moment of silence passes while Abigail shuffles for another pumpkin. It’s a lie. You know it, and clearly Abigail knows it, too. It might just be Pelican Town’s worst kept secret, right next to the Mayor’s pointlessly illicit “affair” with a single woman. Alex hadn’t been able to secure a sports scholarship after graduation, and without a proper college fund he’d been left with no real options. The kid was watching a dream die in real time, and was doing his damnedest to pretend it was still breathing.

Harvey would’ve understood.

“Sure,” Abigail says with a smile that seems more of a pitying twinge. “Well, y’know, maybe they’ll print out the wedding invitation on a pack of protein powder so you’re sure to get it.”

“Ha ha.”

You clear your throat, leaning against the door frame. Abigail squeaks, nearly dropping a pumpkin on her toes. “Keeping busy?”

“Hey Farmer Girl!” Alex says, beaming in the sort of good-natured oblivion only he seems to be capable of.

“She’s got a name,” Abigail says.

“I know that!”

“And maybe one day you’ll remember it, Sports Boy.”

“Oh. Well. Uh. You and Harvey, right? Congratulations on bagging a doctor! Good job!”

“‘Good job’?” Abigail whispers, eyes a little wide at the social disaster unfolding in front of her.

“I dunno, man, what are you supposed to say to somebody when they get laid?”

“‘For the love of Yoba put your clothes on’?” you offer helpfully, still fiddling with the locket.

Abigail’s eyes land on it and widen just a bit. “Ooh, that’s a shiny,” she says, hurrying over for a closer look. “Vintage as hell.”

“It was a gift,” you tell her, grinning in spite of yourself. “From Harvey.”

“Not bad, Uncle Doctor,” Abigail says with an appraising face, “not bad at all.”

Alex leans across for a look himself. “Man, you guys really are nuts for each other already, huh?”

Abigail grins and gives Alex an elbow. “C’mon, you’re supposed to be helping me with these things.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” He bends over, scooping up three pumpkins into his arms.

“I take it the rumor mill hasn’t settled down yet?” you ask as they set to work again.

Abigail just laughs. “Not even close. We don’t exactly get much happening around here. Mostly the only thing the town’s really talked about for awhile now is…”

“Me.”

Abigail offers an apologetic, if cringing, smile. “Yeah, basically.”

“Yeah I probably should’ve guessed that. Nobody’s talking shit, I hope?”

“No, no,” Abigail says a little too quickly. “I mean, not _really.”_

You narrow your eyes as Abigail tries to hide a bit behind a particularly large pumpkin. “Abby.”

“It’s _nothing,”_ she insists, following Alex as he hefts the wheelbarrow up and out the door.

“That doesn’t _sound_ like nothing. And if it’s _something_ I’d like to be prepared for whatever fuckery is eventually going to get thrown at my head.”

“Mayor Lewis,” Abigail mumbles.

 _“What?”_ Your feet tangle a little, motor functions shorting out as you try to process this new information.

She nods unhappily. “He was in my dad’s shop yesterday. I heard them talking. He was going on a bit about how it’s _kind of_ unprofessional for a doctor to be involved with someone who’s _technically_ a patient.”

“Oh give me a fucking _break_ ,” you hiss. “The most I’ve gone in there for is a sunburn and a sprained ankle.” You pull one of the pumpkins out of Abigail’s arms, officially too angry to let your hands stay empty. “Besides, what’s Harvey supposed to do? Anybody within twenty miles is _technically_ his patient. He’s the only doctor between Chestervale and Pine Mesa for fuck’s sake. Is he just supposed to be a hermit?”

“Can’t he get like, a...what’s the thing... special dipping station?” Alex offers, face screwed up in thought.

 _“Dispensation,”_ Abigail corrects.

“Yeah, that. I mean, like you said, it’s not like there’s other doctors around.”

“I don’t know,” you concede. “Honestly, as long as nobody is enough of an asshole to report him for it, I don’t think it matters. We might as well be on the dark side of the moon out here.”

You lose yourself to thought as Alex and Abigail begin unloading the wheelbarrow, arranging pumpkins in neat rows in the driest and most solid end of the field. There’s already one cart worth out on display, and a heap of pumpkins piled into the back of Shane’s pickup truck - the reserve for Spirit’s Eve.

Which Mayor Lewis should be picking up sometime today.

“Skeevy little hypocrite,” you mutter sourly under your breath, and stoop to set your pumpkins down.

“Hey if you’re gonna insult me, leave my height out of it,” Shane says, walking back up from the pasture with this hands deep in his pockets.

“Not _you,_ goober.”

“Oh. Well in that case, keep going. Animals are fed, by the way. Who’s getting dunked on this time?”

“Lewis,” Alex says bluntly. 

Abigail elbows him in the ribs before you get the chance to. Pelican Town’s esteemed mayor is, for obvious reasons, not Shane’s favorite subject.

“Ow! What?”

 _“Shush,”_ Abigail says with a pointed look at Shane.

Shane gives a derisive snort. “And somehow you’re still more discreet than he is.”

“Doesn’t take much,” you point out, trying to keep yourself from spiking a pumpkin like a gridball in your frustration.

Shane pulls the oversized gourd out of your hands. “Alright, alright, chill for a second, no Gallagher impressions. What’d Mayor Horndog do this time?”

You hesitate, chewing at your lip. You don’t _want_ to rile up Shane. Not after last week. And especially not when he’s still two days out from his first actual therapy appointment. But you can’t very well brush this off. Not now that he’s seen you actually getting angry.

You gulp a breath. “He’s a nosy prick. That’s about the long and the short of it.”

“That ain’t news, Phil.” Shane shakes his head, pulling the last pumpkin out of the wheelbarrow and motioning for Alex to start heading for the next batch. “Nose and prick are practically all the old guy’s made of.”

Grumbling, you pull out your keys. “C’mon, we gotta bring the flowers up. I don’t want the Karens near my bees.”

When the both of you are settled in the truck, you finally cave. “Lewis is talking shit.”

“On what? You and Harvo?”  
  
You nod, putting the truck into drive and bouncing off towards the field, where a whole host of mums and roses have been re-potted for sale. “Abigail heard him talking to Pierre. Apparently said it’s ‘unprofessional’ for Harvey to...y’know.” You flap a hand, grimacing, afraid to enunciate anything about your relationship.

“Bone a patient?” Shane says dryly.

Your mouth twists. “Fucking- he’s practically the only doctor in the _county!”_ Immediately you wince, and try to drop your voice - that came out a little louder and a lot angrier than you really meant it to. “And it’s not like I’m getting treatment for anything more than dumbass-related accidents. Saying he’s fucking a patient makes it sound like he’s taking advantage.”

“And he’s not.” It’s... _almost_ not a question.

You shoot him a look, more baffled than angry. “Do you really think that man has it in him to take advantage of anybody? I asked _him._ Alright?”

Shane shakes his head, palms raised in placation. “Alright, Phil, alright. You could always point out to our esteemed Mayor that at least Harvey doesn’t have to manufacture a scandal to get his pecker to stand up straight.”

That cracks you at last, and you let out a weak, sputtering laugh. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get pissy. I wasn’t even going to talk about this stuff today. I just, fuck I was not prepared for _that_.”

“Shit, don’t apologize to me,” Shane says with a look of distaste. “I don’t have the fucking digits required to count how many I owe you. What are you gonna apologize to me for? Getting laid? Not being miserable? Fuck that.”

“You’re still my friend. I know you’re going through hell right now, I just, I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Yeah well, I’m a big boy, Phil. You don’t have to coddle me.” He huffs, looking pointedly out the window towards the treeline. “Look, if, if you’re happy, then…”

 _Then I’m happy_ , is what he _wants_ to say. But the words stick, his face screwing up with effort and frustration.

“Then that’s what matters,” he says.

“Thank you, Shane. I mean it.”

“Augh, fuck,” he says, rolling eyes that are a little too watery. “C’mon, call me shithead or something.”

“Yeah, alright, alright. Thank you, fuckface. Better?”

“There! Yes, thank you!” he cries in mock relief. “Holy shitsnacks, I thought the sincerity was gonna fucking kill me.”

⁂

The arrival of the Karen Brigade is heralded only by the sound of crunching gravel and a soft “Ah fuck, here we go” from Shane. In truth, you weren’t expecting much of a turnout, despite the signs Shane and Alex had agreed to post along the highway last week. Sure you’re not far off the highway, but Pelican Town is hardly a tourist spot, and you’re far enough out in the boonies you were counting far more on what you’d make selling to the town for the fair than whatever business your farm might pull in on its own.

So it’s a surprise to you when the slow trickle of minivans and SUVs and hatchbacks grows to a steady stream. Not quite enough to rush you off your feet, but certainly enough to keep you on your toes.

“What the hell did you two put on those signs?” you mutter to Shane in passing, a potted rose in one arm and a pumpkin in the other.

“‘Free cocaine,’ Phil, what else?” he responds with a shake of his head, trying to balance three pumpkins in his arms.

For awhile you almost forget about Lewis, at least until a familiar truck rolls up the drive, and suddenly you get a hot, sick flush that nearly knocks you off balance.

Abigail, Alex, and Shane glance around at each other over the sales table, then turn back to look at you.

“I can-” Shane starts.

You cut him off with a gesture.

“No. No I got it. I got it.”

“You sure, Phil?”

“Yeah.”

Lewis rolls down his window as you approach, waving. “Morning, Farmer!” he calls out with a broad and amiable smile.

A smile you’d quite like to knock a few teeth from right now. 

You smile back, big and toothy, and wave him in the direction of Shane’s truck. “Caesar's tithe lies that-a-way.”

He laughs, head thrown back, flat cap threatening to tumble off his head, and puts the truck into drive again. Quicker than you could’ve done months ago, you hop up onto the rear bumper and over the tailgate into the bed of the truck. You’ve just a little too much energy to burn right now.

You wave directions as he backs up towards Shane’s truck, dropping the tailgate, hoping to get close enough to just hop between the two. It’s a little fiddly, and a spiteful part of you almost hopes he’ll back up far enough to scratch the paint on his beloved truck, but eventually it’s close enough for government work and you wave him off, shouting _“That’s good!”_ over your shoulder.

You hop across, dropping the tailgate on Shane’s truck. Distantly you hear Shane shout _“Hey, no parkour in my truck!”_ You pop him a double bird and hear the echo of Alex and Abigail’s laughter in return.

Lewis gives a disapproving sound as he climbs down from the cab, adjusting his hat. “I see you keep it colorful around here.”

You grin on reflex. “Like a rainbow, Mayor.”

He flaps a hand. “Lewis, please. No need to be official _all_ of the time.”

He watches you work, shuffling pumpkins from truckbed to truckbed. “I’d give you a hand, but I’m afraid I’m not quite as spry as I used to be. I threw out my back this week just trying to pull up the last of my carrots!”

 _That’s a funny pet name,_ you think, and you have to bite the insides of your cheeks to keep a bubble of awful laughter in check.

“I can handle this, don’t you worry,” you say instead.

A moment of relative quiet goes by as you work, punctuated only by the sounds of hatchbacks and car doors and the babbling of exceptionally small children carried on the hips of their mothers as they pick out last-minute jack-o-lanterns-to-be and bundles of roses you’re still sore to see leave your farm.

But peace is never a lasting thing, and as you come across to Lewis’s truck with the last round of pumpkins, he leans against the bed with a conspiratorial smile and says, “So a little bird told me you gave our dear doctor a bouquet this last week?”

There it is. Your smile tightens. “I did.”

“Well now isn’t that something,” Lewis says. “I had hoped to see you properly settling into our little community. Does my old heart good to see it happen before my eyes!”

“Really?” you ask with a sharp-edged brightness, resting your elbows against the side of the truck. “Now that’s funny, because a little bird told _me_ that you were of the opinion that our relationship was _terribly_ unprofessional.” 

It’s far more satisfying than it should be watching his smile slip. “Well now, that’s not, that’s over-exaggerating a bit! I’m just concerned is all. Now I know we’re all on our own out here and things do work considerably differently here than they would up in the city - and we very much prefer it that way! - but the way I understand it, for a profession such as his there’s certain rules and responsibilities involved and I would hate to see a career the man is so passionate about endangered.”

Your stomach twists again. “You mean you’d hate to lose the selling point of being the only town in a fat stretch of nowhere with a dedicated doctor.”

Lewis’s face hardens, the friendly facade cracking entirely. “It’s my responsibility to look after the well being of this town, Miss. Now, your grandfather was such a dear friend to me, so I’ll let this tone of your slide this time, but-”

“Oh please, don’t make exceptions on my account.” Somehow your smile has widened, cheeks beginning to ache with the strain of it. “My grandfather might’ve called you a friend but that was my _grandfather,_ not me, and that does not give you any right to make a judgement call on my life _or_ my tone.” Gritting your teeth you lean in closer, dropping your voice to a quiet hiss. “And at least Harvey has the guts to admit he’s in a relationship. Unlike some other folk I could mention, _he_ actually has something to lose.”

Color floods Lewis’s face from neck to hairline and he steps back as if slapped. “I believe we’re done here, Miss,” he says crisply, digging for his wallet. He slaps a small stack of bills onto the side of the truck. “For the pumpkins.”

Head throbbing, you straighten, sweeping the bills up and tucking them into your pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mayor.”

The tires of Lewis’s truck nearly spin out twice as he reverses the entire way out your drive.

Shane watches him leave, then turns to you as you approach, marking the still-fixed shark grin on your face.

“Phil I have no idea what the fuck you said to him, but I think I’m proud of you. I, uh, I _also_ think your taxes probably just went up.”

⁂

It’s near dark when you finally slump your way back into your living room with your cashbox under your arm and an ache in your back. You should count the contents. You should eat. You should crawl into the bathtub and try to soothe your back so you don’t end up stuck at a ninety-degree-angle for the next two days. But good sense is the first and most-grieved casualty of exhaustion, and you make it only as far as the couch, grimacing as your muscles fight to unclench and relax.

Almost at once you find yourself drifting, remembering yesterday evening spent curled against Harvey’s shoulder watching old M*A*S*H reruns, and thinking to yourself just how much you wish you could do that now.

You almost wave away the vibration in your pocket as a muscle spasm until you hear the muffled chime of your ringtone. It takes longer than it should for you to fish your phone out of your pocket - you were close enough to sleep that even _finding_ your pocket is a minor feat - but as soon as you wrench it free you break out in a groggy smile.

“Hello, handsome,” you mutter with a stretch.

On the other end of the line Harvey lets out a thin laugh. “Expecting someone else?”

“Nope. Just you. Tall, Dork, and Handsome.”

He laughs again, a little more genuine this time, and you hear the unmistakable groan and sigh as he sits down for what you expect might be the first time today.

“You sound as tired as I feel, sweet thing. How many walk-ins did you have today?”

“Honestly, I lost count once we got into the double-digits.”

“Ouch.”

“Mm. Nobody wants to drive forty miles for a flu shot, and hey, while they’re here, might as well bring up that strange rash they’ve had for the past three weeks!” he cries, fatigue draining a little of the edge from his exasperation. “Honestly why they don't just call the clinic I will never understand. We booked six more appointments today alone. I expect there’ll be more tomorrow.”

“You’re popular, sweet thing.”

He chuckles dryly “For a limited time only,” he says. 

“Do you need to push back my appointment?”

“No, no, Yoba, no,” he says, sounding more than a little distraught at the suggestion. “You’re on the books. I’m not going to preempt an appointment for the sake of a rush of walk-ins. Especially when it’s probably the only time I’m going to see you this week.” 

You close your eyes, wishing you could kiss his forehead and smooth away the crease you know is forming there. “Is it Wednesday yet?”

“I wish it was.” There’s a soft sound that you think might be him pulling off his tie. “Anyway. Enough of my grumping, how’d, um, how’d the sale go?”

“Good, actually. Better than I expected. I haven’t quite had the chance to do a count yet, but the state of the cashbox was promising.”

“Big money?”

“No whammies,” you say by way of agreement. “I’ll have to take you out someplace nice.”

“It’s a very long drive to anywhere _that_ nice, sweetheart.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Could be fun. A mini-road trip, but with formal wear. I’m sure we could come up with all sorts of things to do on the way there or on the way back.”

He doesn’t miss the teasing edge in your voice - you swear you can almost hear him blush. “Not in a moving vehicle, sweetheart. Mortal danger doesn’t exactly get my engine running.”

“We can pull over.”

He laughs, and it’s your favorite one - flustered but delighted. “You’re terrible.”

“I’ll stop when you tell me to.”

“I never said I wanted you to stop,” he mumbles.

“Good.” For a second you just lie there, smiling, listening to the faint sound of his breathing on the other end of the line.

And then Lewis’s voice rings out in your head - _I’m just concerned is all._

You grit your teeth, smile crashing.

“So how bad was the gossip train in town?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

“Fine, really,” Harvey says. “Evelyn congratulated me on finding ‘such a nice young woman.’ I uh, I think she might be knitting baby blankets already,” he adds in a considerably flustered rush. “Anything on your end?”

Ease into it.

“Abigail says you need a bed with quieter springs.”

There is a short, shocked pause on the line, followed by a deathly quiet: _“Oh fuck me.”_

You try your best not to laugh, but by Yoba it’s a hard fight. “I can put some of my newfound riches toward a nice new mattress for you,” you offer.

“I - I can never show my face again,” he says slowly. “Sweet Yoba. Tell me that’s the last of it, at least.”

You sigh.

“That’s not a promising sound.” 

There’s a tension in his voice now, cold and coiled like a metal spring. You wish you could say something to relieve it, instead of what weighs on your tongue.

“Apparently, Lewis has _concerns_ about us.”

A beat. “W-what do you mean…’concerns’?”

You pass a hand over your face. “Our esteemed mayor is of the opinion that our relationship is _unprofessional.”_

Another pause. Longer. Pure silence except for the background hiss of the open line. Then, tone odd and flat: “He said that to you?”

“To Pierre first. Abigail’s the one that told me about it.” 

And you tell him. What Abigail told you. The short and at least mostly tame confrontation with Lewis. All of it.

Silence stretches on as you finish, nothing but that open hiss in your ear.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” Again: flat. Toneless. “What, uh, what do you think?”

You let out a heavy sigh through your nose, like a cartoon bull snorting steam. “Mostly I think he’s a nosy prick. I think if he was concerned _for_ you, he would’ve talked _to_ you. I take it he hasn’t done that?”

“No. No, he hasn’t said a word.”

“Point made, then. You’re good for business, sweet thing. Especially this time of year.” Your stomach twists, remembering the flyers pinned to the bulletin board, just a few feet from the clinic’s front door. How many of the walk-ins this week would be turning up for the festivities? Sneaky bastard.

“You don’t think he’d actually _report_ this?” Harvey asks. And as he says it you finally clock that odd, measured tone for what it is: a nearly paralytic fear.

“No,” you say at once, sitting up sharply. “No, I don’t think he would. You’re too important here, Harvey. He’s not going to shoot himself in the foot to cure an ingrown toenail.”

“All right,” Harvey says lightly. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll talk to him. We’ll...we’ll get this settled.”

“Harvey.”

“Hm,” he says, quiet and distracted.

“I’m not giving you up, sweet thing. Not for Lewis, not for anybody.”

There is a rush of air as Harvey lets out a nervous laugh. “I miss you so much.”

Your chest tightens. “I miss you, too.”

“Dammit, I, I should go. I need to eat, and it’s going to be an early morning.”

You nod, for once glad he isn’t there to see the tears you thumb away from the corners of your eyes. “Yeah, me too. Listen, don’t think yourself into a corner over Lewis, alright? I probably made it sound worse than it is.”

Another sigh, this one far more resigned. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow night, okay?”

“All right.”

“Good night, Harvey.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

The phone goes dark and quiet, and you let it slip from your hand and tumble into your lap.

_Don’t think yourself into a corner._

If only you were going to be able to take your own advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry it's taken so long to get back to this, the past few months have been a Lot. Bless literally all of you for the love you've shown this series in this rather unfortunate hiatus. Thank you so much for your support and your patience, it legitimately means the world to me. Here's hoping things will get back on track now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was started long before any of the Covid-19 business hit in earnest, so a lot of the flu mentions that had originally featured at the start of this chapter have been cut. This does still feature a non-graphic but what I hope is fairly accurate doctor's visit, though, so heads up for any and all that need a warning for that, as well as recurring themes of past abusive relationships. This is all going in the tags, of course, but given everybody's a little raw right now, a little extra warning can't hurt.
> 
> I love you all and I hope this finds you well, or as well as you can be. Take care of yourselves, it's what Harvey would want. <3

Tuesday is little more than a blur of minivans and pumpkins tied up with knotted threads of anxiety. The upshot at least is you fully expect to be out of produce to sell by the time your helpers pack up and head home. You’d prepared yourself for overstock, a truckbed full of leftover pumpkins and potted mums and roses to pass onto Pierre for a quick sale, but by the looks of things all that Pierre is going to get out of you is the shipment of cut flowers you’d already earmarked for Caroline and Evelyn’s flower arrangements.

When the last of the customers finally drives away that evening, your field is a little trampled and almost completely empty. It’s more than you’d really hoped for, and you ignore the protests from Shane as you press a few folded bills into his palm as he climbs into his truck to leave.

“What the fuck? You’re paying me enough as is, Phil. I’m not a fucking charity case.”

“Seasonal bonus,” you insist, pushing his hand away as he tries to give the money back. “You’ve more than earned it. Put it toward Jas’s Winter Star present.”

“Dammit,” he mumbles sourly, considerably less than pleased to have been cornered so neatly. He jams the bills into his pocket. “Fine. For Jas.”

You slap him on the shoulder. “Get outta here, asshat, go home. I’ll see you Thursday morning. Tell the kiddo I said hi.”

He nods, scowling more than a little. Gratitude is not a word in Shane’s vocabulary.

Once inside, you make yourself a cup of tea and set to counting, stacking bills and rolling coins. You’ll need to make a trip to the bank tomorrow to deposit this mess – you’ve got a couple zippered bank bags for the occasion – but for now it’s both baffling and wonderful to sit and stare at the _other_ fruits of your labor and know that at least for awhile you won’t be worrying about your account slipping into the negative again.

Your tea’s almost cold before you realize what time it is, and with a jolt you remember you’d told Harvey you’d call him. Swearing up a blue streak, you grab your phone and hastily pull up your contacts.

The phone rings once, then shunts to voicemail.

And suddenly yesterday’s debacle is fresh in your mind, and all the worry you’ve tried to tamp down and ignore springs up again like an ugly jack-in-the-box.

_Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Harvey Greenwood. I’m currently unable to get to the phone right now, please leave your name and number and a short message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able. If this is a medical emergency, please send a text and I will contact you immediately. Have a great day!_

Beep.

“H–hi Harvey, I’m sorry I’m late calling. Things were a lot busier today than I really planned for. If you’re still up, give me a call back, I’ll be up awhile yet. If not, I’ll um, I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Miss you, sweet thing.”

Click.

There’s an uncomfortable tightness spreading up your back as you fold the phone to your chest. Your mind takes off at a sprint, barrelling through scenario after scenario, none of them good, and almost all of them centering on just what might’ve happened between Harvey and Lewis.

It’s possibly the worst five minutes you’ve ever spent alone in your own head until the phone buzzes in your hand. Not a call, but a text. Three lines, choppy and unpunctuated:

_Can’t talk sweetheart migraine_  
 _I’m sorry_ _  
Miss you too_

You sag into the couch with an overblown sigh. Jumping at shadows. Harvey’s disposition must be rubbing off on you.

You text him back – _feel better soon, sweet thing, good night_ ❤️ _–_ and drop the phone into your lap, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands until bright sparks pop in the darkness behind your eyelids.

“I love you, sweet thing, but you’re a terrible influence on my blood pressure,” you mutter, shaking your head.

It isn’t until you’re crawling into your empty bed and hoisting the covers up over you that you realize that was the first time you’d said such a thing out loud.

⁂

It’s nearing 10am when you pull up to the clinic the next morning. The king-sized coffee you ordered on your way back from the bank – which, unfortunately for you, is still in Pine Mesa – wreaking mild havoc on your nerves. You feel as if you might be vibrating very slightly as you climb down out of the truck’s cab. The square’s single parking lot is quite possibly the fullest you’ve ever seen it, with only a handful of spaces still open.

The row of chairs nearest the clinic’s front window appears to be full, the tops of several heads rising just into view. Maru gives you a beleaguered smile as you push through the door, waving quickly over the shoulder of an older woman with a very snotty and very unhappy baby on her hip.

“I don’t see why you’re making me _wait,”_ the woman says, bouncing the baby in an effort to calm it. It’s not so much futile as it is wholly counterproductive, and the baby’s agitated cries turn into an ear-splitting wail. “I mean surely even _you_ can see little Parker here is sick!”

“The doctor will see you as soon as he can, Ms. McKelvie –”

“ _Missus,”_ the other woman insists, mouth twisted into a scowl.

Maru gives her best placating smile and tries not to wince as Parker’s caterwauling reaches a new pitch. _“Mrs._ McKelvie. Please, if you could just take a seat, we are very very busy today as I’m sure you can see, and we only have the one doctor. I assure you, Doctor Greenwood will be with you as soon as possible.”

There's an unpleasant look on her face that shares a few too many similarities with the sort of expression that usually comes before the phrase _I want to speak to your manager._ But she only nods, presses her lips together tightly, and steps briskly away from the counter. Wonder of wonders.

Maru lets out a small, careful sigh as you step up to the desk.

“Welcome to Hell, now serving #666,” you say in a quiet imitation of your best customer service voice.

Maru stifles a giggle. “Yoba, tell me about it,” she says in a low voice, sliding the sign-in clipboard your way. “I swear I always forget how this place gets this time of year. I miss being able to work on prototype plans instead of playing one-armed paper hanger.”

“How long before things get back to normal?”

“A week or two, usually. The valley’s not _that_ populated, and the folk closer to the fringes usually end up in Zuzu or Pine Mesa instead of here. But when the rush is on, it is _on._ ”

You shake your head, scribbling your name towards the bottom of the mostly full sheet. “I don’t know how you two cope.”

“Not well,” Maru says brightly with a wild-eyed smile.

You jerk your head slightly in the direction of Mrs. McKelvie. “She have an appointment?”

Maru doesn’t reply, but gives you a look as if to say, _Are you kidding?_

“Right, thought as much. You can bump her up in front of me. I can wait.”

“You’re sure?”

“For the sake of everyone’s ears and sanity, yeah. I haven’t got anywhere to be right now anyway.”

Maru slumps in relief. “You’re a saint.”

“Nah,” you say with a smile, snatching up a magazine from a nearby pile and moving for an empty chair. “Just got too much time on my hands.”

It’s a good twenty minutes before Harvey appears, holding the door open for a short, balding man who hurriedly replaces his battered baseball cap as he totters out the door.

“Give us a call if you’re still showing symptoms by the end of the week and we’ll get you back in,” Harvey says, handing over a small stack of papers you recognize as prescription stationary.

He looks harried. His tie – his favorite red one – is just a touch crooked, and his hair is even more askew than usual. He rakes a hand through it as you watch, a nervous habit which only serves to make it even more untidy. But then he catches sight of you and he absolutely lights up, that deep crease on his forehead lifting.

Before he has the chance to call your name Maru pushes a clipboard into his hands, pointing to where Mrs. McKelvie sits with Parker.

He mutters something, frown descending once again, and Maru gives a half-shrug, gesturing at you.

Harvey glances over at you with a look that speaks just as much of gratitude as it does disapproval and calls out: “Mrs. McKelvie. This way, please.”

_“Finally,”_ the woman huffs scooping up her baby and stomping off past Harvey down the hall without pause.

“I’ll be with you shortly,” he says to you, and he would be just the picture of professionalism if it wasn’t for that softness around his eyes.

You nod politely and watch him disappear into the back again, trying to pretend like your heart didn’t just switch genres and start pounding out a dance beat.

You find yourself glancing around, strangely paranoid, wondering if any of the slightly-less-local locals had noticed any of that. You’d like to think you’re not terribly obvious, but there had been that smile. And then the idiocy of what you’re doing hits you, and you open your magazine with a brusqueness that nearly snaps the glued spine in half. Acting like a teenager afraid of being caught with a boyfriend her parents don’t approve of. It’s _ridiculous._

Another twenty minutes goes by while you try to find something distracting in the expired magazines around the waiting room before the front door opens with a chime and a voice as cracked and sweet as an old bell calls out in sing-song, “Good morning, dear!”

Evelyn shuffles in, a tiny old woman with thick stormy grey hair trussed up into a high bun over a warm and smiling face as wrinkled as a dried apple doll. There's an over-sized Tupperware box in her arms, faded red and quite possibly older than her grandson and his dog put together.

Maru swivels in her rolling chair, beaming. “Morning, Granny!”

“Oh it is such a shame you're stuck indoors, it's an absolutely _gorgeous_ day out there.” Evelyn leans against the counter, stretching up on wobbling tip-toe to set the box on top of it.

“Thought you and our good doctor could use a little cheering up this week, so I threw together a little care package for the two of you. Half chocolate chip and half oatmeal, since our dear doctor is trying to be a little more careful these days.” She leans in closer, adding in a poorly masked stage whisper: _“Now that he's got somebody to impress.”_

You can't quite stifle your snickering in time. Evelyn turns, eyebrows raised, and breaks out in a sunny grin. “Well, speak of the devil! Hello dear, how are you?”

“I'm just fine, Evelyn, how are you?”

“Oh, as good as I can get at my age. All these weather changes play absolute havoc with my old bones.” She settles into the thinly padded chair next to you, leaning against your arm. Her feet, you note with no small amount of amusement, do not reach the floor.

“So,” she says, leaning forward with a knowing smile. “From what I've been hearing, I think congratulations are in order. Harvey is a wonderful young man, even if he can't be convinced of it. I'm so happy for the two of you, dear.”

Your stomach does a swooping flip. Evelyn's weathered old voice is pitched low enough not to carry, but you spare a glance at the few folk closest to you. No one's so much as glanced up from their phones or gently out of date magazines.

“Thank you, but, um, this might not be the best place for this conversation,” you say, trying to keep your smile up. “Lewis has–”

“Oh, I know,” she says with a look as though she's just caught a whiff of something particularly unpleasant. “I heard about that, too. And I heard that you gave him quite the earful about it.”

“Yeah, I reckon I did.”

“ _Good,”_ Evelyn says with an unexpected brusqueness. “He's an old fool, always has been. Trust me on that, dear. Between my husband and my long-departed father, I consider myself an expert on old fools. But ever since Joja got its greedy blue fingers in the Valley, he's gotten so much worse. Can't hardly see past the end of that battered old plum he calls a nose anymore.”

You mull this over for a moment, fingers absentmindedly folding the corner of the magazine page down and over, down and over, pleating a nervous little accordion into it.

“Do you think he'll come around?”

She hesitates – no longer than half a heartbeat – then says, “Of course he will, dear.” 

Evelyn seems to read the doubt on your face and gives a little shake of her head. “Harvey is not the first doctor this town has had. Though I think it's fair to say he is the youngest and most dedicated. It was Doctor Winters before him. A good man, if a bit ornery. Still living out the last of his retirement somewhere up the coast the last I heard. He wanders back into town once a year. His wife's buried here, you see. Married for forty-three years. At least ten of those were during Lewis's time as mayor, and he never had much to say about the good doctor taking care of his wife back then.”

She leans in, soft crepe-paper hands gripping your own. “Lewis might be foolish, but he's not _cruel._ It's different for a doctor out here. He knew that once. It'll just take him a little time to remember that.” She smirks, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And mayhap somebody just needs to put a boot up his ass to help him along.”

A brief, floaty sensation takes your head as you laugh, your blood pressure turning briefly into a roller coaster.

“Don't you worry, dear. It'll work out, you'll see.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I’m _always_ right, my dear. A blessing and a curse. But enough of that nonsense. There are few things finer in this world than being young and in love.” She smiles, dreamy and somehow melancholic. “Except perhaps to be old and to _still_ be in love. Enjoy it.”

A familiar voice calls out your name and you jump, startled, and look up to see Harvey holding the swinging door open. He waves you forward with this clipboard. “Come on back.”

Evelyn gives your arm a reassuring pat that pairs strangely with the tiny knowing smirk that's back on her face. “Well go on, dear. Can't leave the good doctor waiting.”

You follow Harvey into the little exam room, heart pounding. As soon as the door clicks shut you turn on your heel, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him soundly.

_Enjoy it_ , Evelyn said. By Yoba, you mean to.

Harvey’s back thuds against the door, the clipboard he was holding clattering to the ground, giving only the briefest moment of shocked resistance before his arms wrap tightly around you and he kisses you back.

“Hello handsome,” you mumble when a little of that frantic urgency has passed.

_“Hi,”_ he breathes through a dazed grin.

“How’s your head?”

“Much better now.” He drops his head to your shoulder and you hold him there, stroking your fingers through the dark sprawl of his hair. “Missed you.”

“Missed you, too, sweet thing,” you say.

“Have a nice chat with Evelyn?”

You titter, lightheaded. “I did. And you're right, I think she is knitting baby blankets.” He gives a little snort against your shoulder, fingers drumming against the small of your back. “I’ll tell you the rest over coffee.”

You can feel his shoulders slump before he shakes his head, pulling back to face you. “I wish I could, but –”

You’re already nodding. Disappointed, yes, but hardly surprised. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says. His mustache tickles your hairline as he kisses your forehead. “I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“Scout’s honor,” he says, dropping his hands to your waist. “Come on. Best we get this done.”

Reluctantly you step away, hopping up onto the exam table as Harvey bends to pick up his fallen clipboard. “So, how does this work? Do you need to make an incision or something?”

“Ah, no, nothing that involved, it’s really quite simple now.” Pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, he gestures at the cart next to the exam table and the supplies he’s laid out at the ready: swabs, gauze, silk tape, a packaged length of bandage, and a curious thing in a sealed packet. He holds this last up, a small plastic contraption that looks something like a cross between the top half of a stapler and an epipen. “This does all the work. It’s preloaded, all I have to do is insert it and pull back on this little thumb lever, and you’re set.”

“Huh. Is it going to hurt?”

“About as much as your average shot. I – I can numb the area, of course, if you’re worried about it,” he adds quickly.

“I trust you.”

He smiles, a little of that nervous energy settling. “I promise I’ll do my best. I’ll need you to take that off,” he adds, gesturing to your cardigan.

“Cue the burlesque music,” you say, enjoying the flustered look that gets you. When you’re down to just your t-shirt he motions you to lie back and ruck up the short sleeve over your left arm.

There’s the sound of the packaging tearing. The cold, rough swab of alcohol. A touch of plastic on the inside of your upper arm.

“Little pinch,” he says, a second before you feel it.

“First the wind up,” you mutter, wincing.

“And the pitch,” he finishes. There’s a click, and a _bigger_ pinch, and then he’s pressing a small fold of gauze to your arm. “That’s it.”

You blink, glancing from the little square of gauze under his thumb up to his face and back again. “You’re _kidding.”_

“Told you it was simple,” he says with a smile, and starts to bandage you up. “This needs to stay on for twenty-four hours, after that it should be fine to remove it. As I said it’s going to bruise, and it’ll likely ache for awhile, but that’s normal. Standard OTC painkillers ought to take care of it. But if you have any concerns, just call me.”

“Think I’ll call you anyway,” you tell him as he tapes the bandage down.

He ducks his head, trying to reign in a less-than-professional grin. “Glad to hear it.” He turns away, bundling up the used packaging and trashing the little applicator gun in the red bio-hazard bin.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Lewis?” you ask, trying to pull your cardigan back over your rather sore arm and giving it up as a lost cause for now.

Harvey starts so hard his shoes squeak on the linoleum, and suddenly he can’t turn to face you.

Your heart lands heavily in your stomach. “Went that well, huh?”

“I...I..um….”

Realization dawns as he half-turns, deep red patches high up on his cheeks.

“You didn’t talk to him.” 

It’s not a question, but it’s not an accusation, either. It’s _fine,_ really. Honestly it’s probably better the old fart has some time to cool off after the way things went at the farm. But Harvey’s folding in on himself, recoiling. As though you’d caught him out in some unspeakable offense.

“Please don’t be angry,” he says, in a voice that is so much smaller than he is. “I t– I _meant_ to, b -but –” This is not the anxious stammering you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s far worse. Sharper, almost; the words twisting up into syllabic tripwire. Frustrated, he claws his glasses off, rubbing forcefully at his eyes.

“I...I panicked,” he manages at last. And then he laughs, dry and spiteful. The sound makes you wince. “Be-because of _course_ I did. I-I was trying to w-work out what I should say and, and what _he_ might say and, and th-the more I thought about w-whether or not he’d even _listen_ to me and then it felt like, like there was an ice pick in my head and I-I couldn’t think and and–”

“Hey, _hey.”_ You’re on your feet then, tugging him towards you. He hesitates, arms stiff, the muscles in his jaw clenching. You touch his cheek and for the briefest second he flinches, the motion sending a sick cold flush straight down to your toes, but when you pull your hand back he sways towards the touch like a tree threatening to fall.

“I’m not angry, Harvey. I’m not. Sweet thing, you are far too hard on yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He sighs, dropping his forehead to yours. “I _did,”_ he says, eyes shut tight. “I said I’d fix it but...Yoba help me, I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” You hesitate, chewing at your lip. You’ve had an idea lurking in the back of your mind for the past two days. The easiest, if not the most pleasant fix. And you know without a doubt Harvey will hate it. 

“Give me a referral. I’ll get a new doctor.”

“Wh-what?” he sputters, mortified. “No, no absolutely not, we’ll make this work, we can talk to Lewis, make him understand–”

You cut him off. “And Yoba only knows how long it will take to make that man see reason. In the meantime we can keep your ass covered. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Your tone is even. Reasonable. But Harvey only stares at you with wide eyes, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Harvey–”

_“No!”_ He doesn’t shout, not quite, but the sound comes out of him strangled. Choked off for fear of being heard. “It– it is _miles_ to the nearest hospital! If, if something happens to you, if there’s an accident and _I can’t do anything –”_

That plucks an awful chord in your gut, but you cut him off again, as gently as you possibly can. “If something happened to me I don’t think Yoba herself could stop you from rushing in with a kit. Listen to me, Harvey: _I am not worth your career._ And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Lewis scare us into keeping this a secret, either. So if the choice is between keeping you as my doctor and keeping you as my partner, that’s no contest.”

Harvey drops his face into his hands, glasses dangling from his fingers. _“Dammit,”_ he mutters. 

And then, in that same small voice: “All right.”

“All right. Come here, Harvey.” He sags against you, six-feet-four-inches of anxiety personified. “It’s gonna be okay.”

There’s a knock on the door, and before Harvey has a chance to respond, Maru sticks her head in. “Doctor Harv– oh, oh I’m sorry.”

Harvey wheels away, wiping at his eyes and hurriedly shoving his glasses back on, nearly poking himself in the eye in the process. “Yes, Maru, what is it?”

“Uh, it’s Willy, he’s just come in with a...fishing hook…situation.”

“Right, yes, uh, I’ll be right out, just give me a moment to finish up here.”

Maru nods, turning to go.

“Wait, wait, before you go, I um...I need you to um, to make a call for me. Can you get in touch with Dr. Fisker’s office, please? Ask if he’s available to take on a new patient.”

She glances from Harvey to you with a concern that is a good deal more than professional.

You give her a small nod, the clearest sign you can give that everything’s okay. Or as okay as it can be for the moment.

Good enough, it seems. Maru nods, slipping away with a quiet, “Yes, Doctor.”

Harvey lets out a wavering sigh as the door clicks closed again.

“Guess that’s my cue.” Slowly you shuffle back, reaching for your sweater. The bandaged spot under your arm is beginning to hurt properly now, a dull ache radiating slowly down your arm and up into your shoulder.

Harvey lays a cautious hand on your elbow and fixes you with a look that is just shy of pleading. “Come back tonight. Please.” His hand slips down your arm, finding yours and squeezing it imploringly.

Heaven knows you want to. But you know, even if he can’t bring himself to say it, that if you come back tonight you’re not leaving until morning, and with so much to do tomorrow you really can’t afford to lose time. But there’s a cold weight in your stomach and that look in his eyes like he’s just broadsided an old wound by accident, and you know there’s no way you can leave it like this today.

“When?”

A wash of relief runs through him. “Seven?”

You nod. “Okay.”

There’s a hesitation when he bends towards you, as if he’s no longer sure if he should, but when you reach up and wind your fingers into the soft curls at the back of his neck he goes more willingly, as though the touch was the answer to the question he couldn’t work up the nerve to ask.

⁂

It’s no small feat to walk out of the clinic with a sense of composure. This was not how you’d envisioned the day going, and while it certainly could have gone _far_ worse – well, to be perfectly honest, you’d rather not think about what worse might have looked like.

It’s not Lewis, or not just Lewis, you’re sure of that now. The way he recoiled back there, that shameful, _fearful_ , expectation of anger…. It’s left an awful taste in your mouth. Metallic. Like biting down on aluminum foil.

_The last time I thought I had this, it all went wrong._

You thought you had an idea of what he’d meant when he’d told you that, giving that little cracked-door peek at whatever had him too scared to unpack his own feelings. But the fear in his eyes when he thought he’d been caught in the wrong, and the way he had flinched. The picture that painted was far darker than you’d thought.

There’s a pressure in your head as you make it out into the late October sunshine, squinting against the light. Too many things to take care of, and only one of you. There’s a farm to run, still, even this late in the season. But Harvey needs you, and Shane needs you. You’re not letting either of them down.

Gritting your teeth, you jog across the square towards the Mullner house, a faded blue and white cottage. Dusty’s pen is out back, and as you peer over the ivy-choked fence that closes off the back yard you can see Alex leaning over the pen’s wall, tossing treats into the doghouse.

“C’mon bud, cheer up,” he says a little dejectedly, trying and failing to walk a small squarish dog biscuit across the back of his knuckles like a magician’s coin. “I know bein’ cooped up sucks, but the last time I let you out you and your kangaroo butt hopped the fence and chased Clint up a tree. I’ll take you down to the beach this weekend, let you chase the seagulls around, how ‘bout that? That sound good?”

“Hey, Alex?”

Dusty rushes out of his dog house at once, rattling up against the chain-link, hackles up and growling at the intrusion. Alex’s head pops up, guarded frown turning into a smile. “Hush up, bud, it’s cool.” He jogs over, leaning against the fence. “Hey farmer girl, what’s up?”

“I got a favor I need to ask you.”

“Oh yeah? I thought pumpkin duty was done and dusted?”

“No, no, not pumpkins. Something’s kinda come up and I’m kind of short of hands. Would you be able to check on the farm for me tomorrow morning? 

He narrows his eyes, staring down at you. “Everything okay?” Alex isn’t perhaps the kind of guy you’d call insightful, and you have to wonder just how much of your trouble is written on your face for him to notice.

“Yeah, yeah, fine, honest. I’ve just got some stuff I promised some friends I’d take care of, and I need somebody to get the animals taken care of and make sure the sprinklers are running.”

He looks at you a little blankly. “I mean, if they’re not, I dunno how to fix ‘em. Engineering ain't exactly my area.”

You flap a hand. “They should be fine. Seriously. If there’s a problem with them just text Maru and let her know.”

“I mean, I can probably do that. I think. What time?”

“Eh, seven-ish? Maybe eight.”

He makes a considering sound, head bobbing as he thinks it over.

“Thirty bucks and another carton of eggs,” you add quickly, digging out your wallet and pulling out a small wad of bills.

“Deal!” he says with a grin, snatching up the money.

You spring up, seizing Alex around the neck for an awkward hug across the fence. “Thank you. You don’t know what a help this is.”

“Yeah, well, doin’ it all for the protein bombs, don’t get any ideas,” Alex insists as you drop back down on your heels, carefully rearranging his hair back into place.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Haley’d take my head for her crown for next year’s flower dance. I’ll leave the keys you need in the mailbox with a to-do list, alright. It’ll be short, though, don’t worry.”

Alex shrugs, that old high school jock blase attitude returning. “Who’s worried? Your farm’s in good hands, farmer girl, I got this. Go do your thing.”

“I owe you one!” you call out, already turning on your heel and sprinting off for your truck.

⁂

Once home, you pack a bag. A small one. Just big enough for a change of clothes, some half-assed pj’s, your toothbrush, and a handful of the necessary sanitary supplies to ensure there won’t be any unfortunate accidents. You’re just about over the hump as far as your period goes, but you’d feel considerably less than great about leaving any parting gifts on Harvey’s sheets the first time staying the night.

Even after spending a little too long debating over a choice of clothes for the next day it’s barely even noon when you finish packing, and you’re left feeling like you might gnaw your own fingers off if you sit still for too long. The curtains that hang at the kitchen window are old embroidered linen, and you pull them back gently, staring out into the back yard.

It’s deceptively mild after last week’s storms. The sky is a clear blue against the treeline, the remaining leaves standing out in faded yellows and browns and reds. You could always weather the garden. Not everything’s ready to be sown under and covered just yet, but there’s enough there that is that you could make a few hours work out of it.

Then again...it has been ages since you’ve been able to wander through the woods. The blackberries might be spent, whatever grows wild in the woods has surely been picked clean by the wildlife by now, but there should be plenty of mushrooms cropping up now. And a walk might just do you good.

The ache in your arm has reached a distracting pitch, radiating down your arm and up into your shoulder. You knock back a couple tylenol with a glass of water, and as a concession to the disapproval you know would be on Harvey’s face at this medicate-and-dash move you fill a small ziploc bag with a handful each of beef jerky and mixed nuts. Hardly fresh and healthy, but it’s a food, and honestly that’s as best as you reckon you can allow yourself right now.

Humming to yourself - a nervous habit you’ve never quite been able to break - you rush through the house and make for the shed, carefully shouldering your foraging basket and tucking a pruning knife, a double-headed cultivator, and a couple drawstring bags into your belt. Mushrooms are the ticket today, but you’ve seen a few elderberry shrubs here and there along the path you normally follow, and you’ve been curious to see what you could make out of them.

Prepared now, you take a moment leaning against the door frame to send a quick text to Harvey _(See you at 7, sweet thing, I’ll bring dinner)_ before seizing the smooth-worn walking stick from the corner and setting off.

⁂

It’s lovely. It’s _always_ lovely in these woods. Sometimes still and strange, especially the deeper in you go, but always undeniably beautiful. The crows follow you today, hoping perhaps to pick at whatever you might shake loose and leave behind. You talk to them as you pass, lamenting that the only goodies you’ve brought with you have far too much salt to share with them.

It’s with a little luck that you find a small hoard of hazelnuts first, dark gemstone eyes following you with great interest as you gather them up. You make work of a few handfuls of them as you go, cracking them with the flat blade of your cultivator and scattering them on the path. Two of the crows – large and glossily dark – descend as soon as you move up the path, happily splitting open the thin, brittle shells to get to the meat inside. There’s a chorus of rusty caws as you make your way up around the corner that might just be a thank you.

The wind picks up, breeze becoming steady, shaking loose fresh falls of lazily twirling leaves. You fall into routine easily, wandering in loops around the path and into the woods, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Your studiousness is rewarded surprisingly quickly. It’s been weeks since you’ve had a chance to come out and forage, and the mushrooms have cropped up thick without your interference. Before long your basket is full of them, brown mushrooms and chantarelles and hen-of-the-woods, and the drawstring bags you brought hang heavy with elderberries.

It’s easy to think as you work, you’ve done this enough times now you’ve found your routines and rhythms. Somehow the thing you keep coming back to is the image of Harvey rolling up to the farm on his bike with that paper bag of chicken parmesan. Harvey, who had worried enough about you to squash his fears of rejection long enough to make that gesture of care.

That, you think, hefting another handful of mushrooms into the basket, is what _he_ needs right now.

Time for the Doctor to get his own house call.

A crackle of leaves pricks your ears. “Sorry guys,” you call, expecting the crows have followed you a little further. “I don’t think mushrooms are bird-friendly.”

The crackling rustle gets louder, and you glance up, fully prepared to have a quiet debate with the local bird population. But there are no birds. About twenty feet away, with its head bent cautiously low, is a large and rather haggard-looking dog. It’s fur is thick and what color you can make out through the caked smears of mud is an odd mix of brown and black and white under a mottled wash of grey – some manner of shepherd, you think – its eyes a mismatched set of brown and blue.

Its tail isn’t wagging, but there’s no aggression in its posture, at least not yet. It is curious _,_ but wary.

“Well hello,” you say, settling on your haunches. You tuck your cultivator back in your belt, hoping that will make you look a little less threatening. “Fancy meeting you out here. Where’d you come from?”

Its tail gives a slight twitch, and it takes a slow step forward.

“It's okay, kiddo, I'm not going to hurt you. Are you hungry?” you ask, plucking at the corner of the ziploc bag in your front pocket. “Jerky isn't really crow food, but it should be alright for you.”

The dog freezes mid-step as you pull the bag out and open it, nose twitching.

“It's okay,” you say again, taking out a long strip of jerky and breaking off one end. You pop it in your mouth and hold your hands up. “Quality shoe leather. Good stuff, Maynard.”

You hold the rest of the strip out, watching as the dog moves towards you just a tiny bit more, then stops. You'd swear its eyes kept shifting from the jerky and back to you, weighing hunger against the possibility of danger.

“Hey, it's alright. I wouldn't trust jerky from a stranger in the woods either. Here.” You toss the strip underhanded, letting it fall onto the leaf-strewn moss halfway between you and the dog.

There's a moment of hesitancy before the dog shuffles up, gives the ground a sniff, and snatches up the strip of jerky.

Smiling, you fish out a second piece. “Did you even taste that, kiddo? Here, try again.”

The second piece disappears almost as quickly as the first one. Bit by bit the dog gets closer, until you're tossing the last piece down only two feet away. There's a collar around its neck, old and frayed, but there's only the twisted metal link where tags should be.

“Last of it, I'm afraid. I didn't plan on feeding two. You've been out here a hot minute, huh? Surprised I haven't seen you before. I live out here, too, y'know.”

Seemingly unconcerned with small talk, the dog stretches towards you, sniffing at the now-empty bag. You hold it out, letting the dog give it a proper nose to confirm you're telling the truth. You think to hold your hand out, let the dog give you a once-over – somewhere in the back of your mind you're already wondering if Harvey likes dogs – but with the promise of food exhausted, the dog promptly turns tail and runs back off into the woods.

A little baffled, you stuff the empty bag back into your pocket, calling out, “It was nice meeting you!” to the furry form as it disappears into the underbrush.


	3. Chapter 3

Once home you turn on the radio, open the windows, and spend a little time working through your haul. The elderberries, once cleaned, get funneled into bags and frozen. There isn't quite enough to stretch for wine, but you've been hoping to take a shot at making mead next year when the hives start producing in earnest. You've already bought a kit on impulse, and there's a case of five one-gallon gurglers awaiting their inaugural run in your mudroom. But even for a test batch you’ll need honey, and quite a lot of it.

So for now, that can wait. You've got bigger fish to fry.

Set high up on one of the shelves above the sink is an old tin recipe box that had once belonged to your grandmother. There are of course a fair amount of clunkers in a collection that old – you shuffled the jello meat salad collection to the back of the box as soon as you found them – but there's quite a lot of good stuff in there, too. It only takes a moment to find the card you want, faded graphite on heavily yellowed card stock. Written at the top in a heavy, sloping hand are the words _G-ma's Cream of Mushroom Soup._

Cooking is a rather therapeutic distraction. The recipe isn't complicated, just time consuming, requiring not just the chopping of a whole onion and a small mountain of mushrooms, but time for them to cook down and caramelize. Patience, while a virtue, is a little harder for you to come by today, but you've got a solution for that, too. Good soup needs good bread, and bread dough is a fantastic place to work out your aggressions.

By the time it's growing properly dark, you've got the last of your forage haul spread out in the oven to dry, and dinner bundled up and ready to go. Your old crock pot serves as temporary soup transport, the lid secured as tightly as you can get it with some judicious application of twine. The bread, now somewhat cooled, has been bundled up in tea towels, along with a ladle and bread knife. You have a sneaking suspicion that Harvey might not own either. The kitchen is a minor disaster, but that, you have decided rather foolishly, is a problem for Future You. 

At the last possible second you double check the contents of your bag, debating with yourself for a bit before finally deciding to toss in your bottle of tylenol. Yoba knows you're probably going to need it. Humming nervously under your breath, you pack up, loading up the truck and dropping your spare keys and a list of instructions in your mailbox for Alex in the morning.

You take the drive carefully, crock pot strapped down on the passenger side as best as you can get it, keeping a hand on it as you go. The thought of spending the evening scraping mushrooms out of your truck with a squeegee is decidedly less than appealing. There's a light on in the clinic as you pull up, throwing dim light on the empty waiting room. And something about that makes the next heartbeat land heavy in your chest. A deep breath steadies you. A second one even more. You glance up, hoping to see the drapes stirring in the apartment above, hoping to see Harvey's face at the window, but there is only a warm, muted light.

Your head, you note with some dismay, is beginning to hurt. The ache in your arm is returning, too, along with an entirely too-familiar dull-sharp cramp in your abdomen. Painkillers finally wearing off. Joy of joys.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” you mutter to yourself, unbuckling your seat belt and scooching your cargo across the bench seat.

It takes a little juggling, but you manage to carry it all. Bag slung around your shoulders, crock pot socked against your hip, and the bundle of bread balanced atop it. You make your way in, hurrying sideways through the doors as you get them open and taking the narrow staircase up to the landing.

The jazz that filters through the closed door comes as no surprise. For a moment you're unsure if you should knock, but as you raise your hand, knuckles turned towards the door, you catch sight of the silver keyfob hanging from your fingers. It gleams faintly by the light of the hallway's near-ancient overheads, and you shake your head with a half-hearted laugh. _Dumb ass,_ you chide yourself, and unlock the door.

“Harvey?” you call, shuffling carefully inside. There's no answer. Under the low warble of a brass section you can hear the sound of the shower running. You make your way to the kitchen, unloading your arms and immediately digging through your bag for the Tylenol. Your hand hovers over the faucet before you pin that as a bad idea. You’re not aiming to be the cause of a second shower-related incident. The contents of his fridge are a good deal lighter than you really approve of, but there’s a carton of orange juice that is at least within date, and you pour yourself just enough to shotgun the painkillers.

A cursory rifle through the cutlery drawers proves your intuition right – Harvey owns little beyond a set of silverware, a can opener, a corkscrew, and a plastic spatula that has quite possibly never seen use. The faint sounds of water cease, and as you pull down a pair of bowls from the cabinet you hear Harvey call out your name cautiously.

“In the kitchen, sweet thing,” you call back. “Dinner's on when you're ready.”

“Just a minute.”

He's still quite damp when he appears in the doorway, white t-shirt and blue-striped pajama pants sticking to his skin. His hair has been combed back, but the ends have already staged a revolt and are beginning to curl. He stares past you, blinking at the spread on the counter. 

“What's all this?”

You lean yourself against the counter, smiling. “Mushroom soup, freshly foraged. Told you I was gonna take care of dinner.”

He gawks as if you'd trucked in a roasted goose rather than a pot of soup. “I thought you meant take out.”

“After today I figured you could use a little homemade comfort food.” you tell him, slipping your arms around his waist. He smells damp and clean, skin warm enough to tell you just how hot his shower had been.

He goes silent, throat working, eyes wide behind his glasses. You know that look. You've been on the receiving end of this exchange yourself, after all. It's hard to believe that was barely a week and a half ago.

“You didn't-”

You shrug. “I did anyway.”

“I see that,” he sputters.

“You take care of so many people, Harvey. Somebody ought to take care of you, too.”

His face pinches, fighting to keep composure. Tightening your grip on his waist, you raise up and kiss the corner of his mouth. He turns into you, lingering, wanting to chase the kiss but hesitant to push forward even an inch.

Nodding, you coax him forward. “It's all right, sweet thing. I promise.”

He crumples into you by degrees. Head drooping, hands pressed against your back. And finally the tears come. His shoulders shiver with them, and you feel the wetness against the crook of your neck, but he makes no sound. You hold him through it, swaying gently with his head resting heavily on your shoulder. 

"Missed you, Harvey," you whisper into his ear.

He clutches you tighter. "Missed you, too," he says raggedly.

You stay like that for a time, shoring him up until his breathing calms and the tears stop. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels like a thank you and an apology all in one. There's the spearmint taste of Crest on his lips, but under that, far, _far_ under that you think you catch a smoke-sharp hit of nicotine. Another mystery.

“Come on,” you mutter, lips brushing the faint stubble at his chin as you sweep away the tears from his cheeks. “You should eat, sweet thing. Before it gets cold.”

You sit at his kitchen table, the room a little unfamiliar at this hour, lit only by the dangling light above the table. The meal is good. It’s no culinary masterwork, but it is hearty and fairly tasty. Harvey tucks into it with a careful, reserved deliberation. A measured spoonful. A small, torn chunk of bread. Neat and manageable portions. In truth, he eats the same way he does everything else: constantly and almost painfully aware of himself. But it doesn't take much to see that, beyond that ever-present restraint, the man is famished.

Gently, you press: “Skipped lunch, I take it?”

He ducks his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “It was very busy. And...I really didn't want to give myself time to think.”

You snag his hand, pressing the knuckles to your lips. “Hey. I’m not mad, sweet thing. Just worried. There's plenty more if you're hungry. I sort of forgot the amount of people my great-grandmother fed with those recipes of hers.”

Harvey casts an eye at the crock pot. The two bowls you filled have barely dented the contents. “I don't think I can quite pack _that_ much away.”

“Well, tell you what. You can keep the leftovers. At least that way I know you've got _something_ to eat for a couple days.”

“I couldn't -”

“You could,” you tell him. “If you want to. I mean I don't make any big claims about my cooking skills. If you don't like it I’m hardly going to take that as a personal affront.”

“No, no, I do!” he says so emphatically you're amazed he doesn’t immediately gulp half the bowl down to prove his point. “I, I just...I...,” he trails off with a sigh, pushing a chunk of mushroom around with his spoon.

That’s an easy one. “You feel bad,” you finish for him.

He gives a small, sad laugh, and nods. “Yes. I should be taking care of you. Not the other way around." His shoulders sag a little, and he adds in a dismal afterthought: "Especially after today.”

You squeeze his hand. “Harvey, it's alright to let somebody else do for you for a change. I know you've got you've got your reasons for it. I understand that, I truly do. But I’m not going to let you bend over backwards for me and then turn around and pretend you don't need somebody, too. You're not alone in this, sweet thing. Not anymore. We can take care of _each other_. Okay?"

The corners of his mouth twist, and he bites at his lip in a half-hearted attempt to keep himself from crying again. Slowly, he nods again, offering a small, tremulous smile. "Deal."

⁂

You take up the brunt of the small talk after that, filling him in on the last few days at the farm. There isn't much interesting to tell - in truth it’s been pretty uneventful in the aftermath of Lewis’s visit - but you pass on a few moments of levity or pure ridiculousness (and with Shane, Abigail, _and_ Alex having been on your farm two days straight, there is a fair amount of both) that coax a smile out of him.

Eventually you come to this afternoon, telling him of the dog you came across in the woods. This last catches his attention, brow creasing in a familiar look of concern. You can almost hear the file system in his head ratcheting away, mentally cross-referencing your story and hoping to not come away with a possible diagnosis of rabies.

“Before you ask: it wasn't aggressive, it wasn't frothing, and it didn't bite me.”

His mustache twists as he chews on his bottom lip. “Grumpstache?”

You nod, a little fondness in your smile.

“Sorry,” he says, but at least this time there's almost a laugh in it. “The doctor's hat is grafted to my head. You might let Marnie know there's a stray around, though.”

As it is with most particularly small towns, most of the folks in Pelican Town have more than one job. Gus, the tavern owner and cook, also doubles as a barber by appointment; Emily serves as a seamstress when she's not waiting tables at the saloon, and so on. Marnie's trades are not quite so varied. In addition to selling livestock and supplies, she's also the Valley's resident veterinarian.

“I hadn't thought of that,” you say, eyebrows raised. “Good call, sweet thing. I'll pass that on in the morning.”

He smiles, pleased to have been a help, and Yoba if that isn't the most _him_ thing possible.

With his belly considerably fuller, Harvey seems to relax a bit. It takes more than a little convincing for him to let you help with the dishes – something he classes as both unnecessary and rather unfair given the work you put in over dinner – but a few reassurances and a strategic kiss end his complaints fairly quickly.

In compromise he makes coffee afterward, and you cozy up shoulder to shoulder on the couch, mugs in hand. It's comforting. The coffee, and his closeness. But there's a building charge as the silence stretches on, an elephant in the room that is increasingly difficult to avoid.

You rest a hand on his knee and lean a little against his shoulder.

“So. Do you want to talk about it?”

Harvey sighs with a rush, as if he'd been holding his breath. “No. Not even a little. But I think we have to. I just don't know where to start.”

Silence falls again as Harvey peers into his mug, as if the answer might be found there.

Knowing you might well be the one that has to start this, you fall to your own thoughts, shuffling through your memories of the last few days. There’s only one you keep coming back to, and before you can properly think about it, the words are out of your mouth: “You flinched. When I raised my hand you flinched.”

Harvey breathes in sharply, eyes wide. And then his head drops, and your heart goes with it.

 _Oh good job you ass_ , you think bitterly.

“Dammit. Sweet thing, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

You press gently, uncertain. “Your last girlfriend?”

“Yes.” Quiet.

“She hurt you. Like, actually....” There's no graceful way to finish the sentence, and you let it hang.

There's a long pause that's more damning than any admission. Then: “Only at the end.”

Your jaw clenches with the effort of not balling your hands up into fists. Part of it is knowing you were right. But the other part is how _small_ he sounds. How it's more like there is a child speaking out of the shrinking bulk of his body, small and scared and ashamed.

His hands are trembling, the remnants of his coffee rippling in the mug. You take it from him carefully, folding his hands up in your own.

“Harvey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that you went through that, and that I scared you like that and...I...fuck, that was not where I should've started. You don't have to tell it, sweet thing. It's all right.” You fall into a shameful silence and press your face against his shoulder in the hopes of keeping anything worse from tumbling out of your mouth.

His hand spasms, squeezing yours involuntarily. “No. I _do_. I just... I don't know if I can do it _now_. There's a lot there and...I'm not very good at being objective about it." He chuckles mirthlessly. "I haven't even told all of it to my therapist yet.”

“I didn't know you were in therapy.” That shouldn’t surprise you, not with how guarded he is about the parts of himself he fears are weak. But still, somehow, it does.

“Oh. Yes.” There's a touch of caution in his eyes now, his guard going up again.

You kiss the back of his hand and smile up at him, hoping it looks as reassuring as you intend it. "I'm proud of you, sweet thing.”

The caution fades again, replaced by a sheepish sort of pride, and you nearly sigh in relief. Harvey gestures to where his phone lies on the coffee table. “That was another reason why I got the new phone, actually. I can't exactly commute all the way to Zuzu by bicycle, so we've been doing phone sessions since I moved out here. Apparently 'facetime' is the new preferred method, and I couldn't do that on the old brick.”

There's a moment of quiet while he traces the ridge of your knuckles with his thumb. “I've told her about you,” he says. A small smile breaks across his face as he says it, and your heart trips.

“Good things, I hope?” The way he's looking at you now, you hardly have to ask. But there's a warm bloom in your chest when he nods, a little joy in the admission.

“Good things, yes. She, um, she's of the opinion that this is good for me.” A beat while his eyes, still over-bright, linger on yours. “That _you're_ good for me.”

You suck in a breath, heart beating out a rhythm that feels like a bongo player tumbling down a long set of stairs. “High praise. I hope I can live up to that.”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “You already have.”

Leaning his forehead against your cheek, Harvey leaves a kiss light and slow on the corner of your mouth. It’s sweet enough it makes you ache. And then he takes a breath, deep and sharp like a man preparing to plunge into dark water, and you know what's coming.

“I'm sorry about today.”

“Harvey, you don't-”

“I _do_ ,” he insists, but his voice is steadier, stronger. More himself. “I handled it badly. All of it. I said I'd fix it and I didn't. I raised my voice. I shouldn't have. I was scared. I know that's no excuse, but I...I haven't been this happy in a long time, and the thought that I'd done something that might've endangered that, and not being able to take care of you if you were, if you needed...”

“I'm not angry with you, Harvey.”

He nods, nose brushing your cheek. “I know. You have no idea what that means to me. But I still owe you an apology.”

You turn, pressing your lips against his cheekbone. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. Then, in an unpleasant afterthought: "We still need to handle Lewis."

That earns a lightly disgusted sound from you. "I'll talk to him. Might go easier coming from me, especially if I get to give him the ‘good’ news about my new doctor. I should probably apologize to the old bastard anyway. I wasn't exactly kind about it the first time this came up."

"Speaking of, you should be hearing from Fisker's office in the next couple of days," Harvey adds, fingers beginning to fidget with yours. "He's a bit of a drive to get to, but um, I've known him for a long time. He's a good doctor, I promise."

"I know you're not referring me to a roadside quack, Harvey, I trust you."

The smile that gets you is sweet, but exhausted. "I'm glad." 

He goes quiet, staring at the floor. He's drifting into his own thoughts again, brow creasing, and you cover his hand with your own.

“Penny for your thoughts, sweet thing.”

Harvey frowns more intently, deep grooves forming between his eyebrows. "It’s nothing, it’s...just something Shane said keeps running through my head lately. I haven't really been able to shake it off."

You turn a little, your own frown forming. "What do you mean?"

Harvey grimaces, dropping his head, and you get the sneaking suspicion that whatever it was is going to make you want to kick your good buddy in the shin. "It's nothing, really. He just...Monday morning before you took me home. He, he apologized again. In his own way. He said he didn't deserve friends like us. And he said that I should be good to you because...because you're better than we _both_ deserve."

It's all you can do not to curse. "That’s- he's in a shit place right now, Harvey. He's depressed and he's jealous and he's projecting. That’s all."

Harvey nods, eyes still downcast. "No, I know. But there's a part of me that thinks he’s right. That’s _always_ thought that. I just...I don’t understand what you could possibly see in me.”

In anyone else you'd mark this as a poor attempt at false modesty; someone fishing for compliments to bolster a wounded ego. But the bafflement in his voice is too sincere to be anything but genuine.

“If I told you, would you believe me?” 

The smile he gives you is soft and sad. “No. I don’t suppose I would.”

It’s not an unexpected answer, but it’s not one you’re willing to let lie.

“Tell me something,” you ask, a traitorous crack in your voice.

Harvey nods jerkily.

“If we hadn’t been sloshed enough to get ourselves tongue-tied into fooling around in the saloon, would you ever have made a move?”

His eyes skirt past you, and he breathes in so deep it pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders.

“I want to say yes. But I don’t think I could have. Not on my own.”

You nod, understanding. And then you tell him plainly: “I would have.”

He stares at you, dumbfounded. “Even...even if we hadn’t…”

“Yes. The only reason I waited so long was that I was afraid I might run you off. You’re one of my best friends. I didn’t want to ruin that. But I wouldn’t have been able to hold out much longer.”

Fresh tears slip down his cheeks. “That’s…you, you are _so_ much braver than I am.”

“Maybe. But brave doesn't mean you're not scared, Harvey. Trust me on that.”

There’s a long, quiet beat while Harvey’s fingers pad restlessly against the back of your hand.

“Are you? Scared, I mean?” he asks finally.

“Oh yeah,” you laugh. “Fucking terrified.”

He frowns, clearly perplexed at the idea. “What of?”

You take a deep breath, leaning a little harder into him. “Oh, lots of things. The dark. The news. Tight spaces. Failure.”

You crane your neck, shifting in the crook of his arm to look up at him. “The thing I’m most afraid of right now is messing this up. Everything’s been a disaster this last month, except for you. You’ve been the one thing that’s felt right, that’s made me _happy,_ and I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up.”

His eyes shine in the low light as he swallows around the lump in his throat. The words are on his lips with practiced immediacy, a verbal reflex: “I don’t deserve -”

That’s as much as you can bear to hear, and you kiss him to stopper the rest.

“Yes you do,” you say against his mouth. “No matter what anybody else says. No matter what you think. You're a much better man than you think you are, Harvey Greenwood. I wish you could see that. And you deserve to be happy, too.”

Harvey’s face works. You can feel the hitch in his chest as he tries to get the words out, drawing the air back in and forcing him to start again. He gives up with a shake of his head and presses his mouth to yours.

Words are too much. This, he can do.

⁂

It is a long, long time before either of you speak again.

It’s Harvey that breaks the silence. He wipes at his poor, swollen eyes as he pulls away from you, trying to focus. “I, um, I was thinking,” he says thickly, clearing his throat with a sound like a stuck engine. “I shouldn't ask, but..."

You kiss his cheek. "Do it anyway.”

“Okay,” he says with a thin chuckle. “I know you've got to pick up Shane in the morning, and I've got to open the clinic. But would you – _can_ you stay the night? The bed's far too small, but the um, the couch folds out. It's not much, I know. But I think I’d sleep better tonight if you were here.”

You tap his chest, pointing in the corner by the door where your overnight bag rests. “Way ahead of you. I've got Alex dropping by the farm in the morning to mind the animals, too.”

He laughs, a little baffled. “Mind reader.”

“I wasn’t going to make you spend the night alone, Harvey.”

“Yoba, don’t make me cry again,” he mutters, hiding his face in your hair. “I’ll be a husk by morning.”

“Get yourself something to drink. I’ll set up the couch.”

"No, no you've done enough, sweetheart," he says, stopping you as you try to stand. His hand lingers on your arm, feeling the bandage under your shirt.

"I'm fine," you insist, and the look he fixes you with is a little more knowing than you'd like. "I took a couple Tylenol just before you got out of the shower."

"After you'd spent the afternoon foraging and making soup and baking bread," he points out with a rather irritating calmness. "I can handle this, I promise. Get yourself changed, I’ll take care of the couch."

You scowl a little. “One caveat.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Drink some water first. You need it. I’d bet good money your head’s pounding right now.”

“Turning my medical knowledge against me, I see how it is,” he sighs, and heads into the kitchen for a glass.

When he’s finished you pick up your bag and make for the bathroom. You take your time, watching him move the coffee table against the wall and then turn to pull the hide-a-bed out of the couch. It might only be the lighting, but you swear there's a little more flex to the muscles in his arms and shoulders when he moves, and you start to wonder for the first time if Harvey hasn't been trying to sneak a workout into his schedule.

Just as promised, by the time you've washed up and changed into your pajamas - an oversized t-shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants - the makeshift bed has been made. Harvey gestures in a fashion that manages to be both proud _and_ embarrassed at the result: a disaster of mismatched thrifted floral sheets and a pair of knit blankets - one too large and the other too small.

"I don't know how comfortable this is going to be," he warns.

"Don't care," you mumble, pushing yourself into his arms. "If it's awful we can drag the mattress off onto the floor."

It is not _awful._ It is, however, several miles down the road from anything you might call good. The two of you spend at least five minutes shuffling and squiggling around in the dark like caterpillars, trying to find a position that doesn't result in the bed frame digging into your back or ribs. But after awhile you settle into a moderately comfortable divot, Harvey lying on his back with you tucked against his left side.

You kiss him again; an intended good-night kiss, but one the both of you can’t quite pull away from. It lingers and warms until you feel his tongue brush hesitantly across your lips. When you part them in acceptance he lets out a low, quiet groan.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re ready for sleep,” you mutter.

He swallows hard, but can’t seem to speak. He has, you think, found yet another verbal roadblock.

“You can tell me, Harvey.” You slip your hand beneath his shirt and stroke your fingers through the fine hair across his chest. “Tell me what you want.”

Harvey presses his lips together, frowning. “I shouldn’t. Not while you...you're...not while I can’t return the favor.”

You press against him more firmly, kiss the tight line of his mouth until, very very slowly, he opens up again for you. Your thumb brushes against his nipple and it raises and hardens instantly. What he wants is obvious. Affection. Comfort. Relief. But he can’t bring himself to ask.

“I’m _offering,"_ you insist between kisses. "You’re allowed to want things, and you’re allowed to ask. It doesn’t always have to be about me.”

For a moment you don’t think he will...or he can. His hand cradles the back of your neck, his eyes squeezed shut tight. You let your fingers wander, brushing circles around the small, sharp rise of his nipples, and he gasps against your mouth.

“Touch me, sweetheart,” he chokes out, the words tinged with desperation and more than a little guilt. _“Please.”_

You reward his candor with another kiss, and slip your hand down and down and down, squeezing him gently. He sighs, a deep, held breath, and drags you a little closer.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

His breath tickles your cheek as he laughs. "Don’t tease an old man."

You squeeze a little more firmly, tugging at his length as he begins to harden. "Who's teasing?"

"Point taken," he says breathlessly.

"And what a fine point it is."

More laughter stirs your hair. It does your heart good to hear it.

"Where's your oil, sweet thing?"

He twists with a grunt, fumbling at the drawer of the end table nearest the couch. He settles back, pressing a familiar bottle towards you.

"Do you just keep a bottle of this stuff in every drawer in your apartment?" you ask, stifling a giggle.

"I moved it," he says, a little sheepish.

When he doesn't offer to elaborate, you give his t-shirt a tug. "Off with this."

He does as he’s told, stripping it off and letting it fall off the side of the hide-a-bed. You settle your head against his chest, tucking your shoulder in to give you use of both your hands. He pushes the blankets down and shoves the waistband of his pajama pants down his hips. The swelling rise of his cock gives a twitch at the cold air before you take him in hand again, slicking him up from the tip all the way to his balls. The feel of him slowly warming to your touch is sweet, cock thickening under your fingers as you stroke him.

Harvey cradles you against his chest, pressing his lips against your forehead. His breathing deepens. You listen to the wave-crash of it against your ear, and the deep, percussive thud of his heartbeat as it begins to quicken.

"Good?"

"Amazing," he breathes, carding his fingers through your hair. "I just wish-"

"Shh." You lift your head and cut him off with a kiss. "No more worrying tonight. Let me take care of you."

You squeeze him, twisting your oil-slicked hands over the plump head of his cock, and he gives a soft groan, eyes slipping closed.

"There you go. Just relax, sweet thing. I've got you."

He is quiet. Quieter than he's ever been with you before. Perhaps he's afraid of being heard, perhaps it's nerves. Whatever the case, you're left to gauge his pleasure by other means. The way his heartbeat kicks up beneath your ear, thudding harder and harder. The way his breathing deepens, soft sighs becoming harsh and ragged. The darkening flush you can just barely see creeping down from his face to his chest in the low light.

His left hand trails down your back, rucking up your shirt to lie flat and warm against your skin. His right finds your cheek and coaxes you up into a kiss. He holds you there, nose to nose. He’s sweating now. You feel the dampness of it on his skin as he pushes himself against you, hungry for contact.

"Good?" you ask again.

He gulps air; nods. "Good. _Harder."_

Twisting, you tighten your grip, and he quakes, pushing himself up into your hands. He swears breathlessly, a shape of words against your lips. He’s close already.

"You want me to make it last, or do you just want to come?"

A moan, lips pressed hard against your cheek. "Make me come, sweetheart," he says, voice tight and strained. Every stroke sends a fresh jolt of pleasure through him, body jack-knifing as his muscles contract involuntarily. "I _need_ it. Please."

"I've got you, baby." Your own voice shakes as you increase your pace.

He gasps, arching up. _"Please."_

"I've got you."

Clutching at you desperately, he buries his face in the hollow of your neck as he comes, his cries soft and muted against your skin.

You mutter praises in his ear, hands slowing. It's a shock when his hand grips your wrist.

"Don't stop," he pants. "Keep - keep going."

You pull back, trying to look him in the eye. It's too dark, and he's too close, and all you can see is the suggestion of his face. "Harvey, are you-"

As if in answer, he pistons your hand along his length, hissing through gritted teeth. _"More."_

He only lets go of your wrist when you start stroking him again. He whimpers, shuddering, but you feel him nod against your neck. _"Yes._ Like that. _F-fuh-huck! Like that."_

Every touch leaves him quaking. He's hard as a rock in your hands, pulse pounding through his erection like a jackhammer. His fingernails dig into your back, teeth scraping against your neck. And all through it he croons and hisses, begging you to keep going. There's an edge in his voice you've never heard before, raw and needy and almost pained.

The bed frame creaks as Harvey's heels dig into it, pushing up hard, and he comes _again_ with a strangled sob. You slow, and this time he doesn't stop you. He's wrapped around you too tightly, a hand in your hair, the other pressed between your shoulder blades. Holding on for dear life.

"Easy, baby," you whisper, peppering the side of his neck and jaw with kisses. "Easy."

His mouth covers yours, kissing you soundly. When he breaks away you can just barely see the glint of tears in his eyes.

"You okay?" you ask.

Swallowing thickly, he nods, and dim sparks go flashing down his cheeks. "You're good to me, baby," he croaks. "You're so good to me."

"You deserve it, Harvey."

His chest hitches, and you plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Rest, baby. Let me get you cleaned up, okay?"

He nods again, either too winded or too overwhelmed to speak.

You squirm your way off the bed and hurry to the bathroom, using your elbow to pop the light on. Trying to be quick, you take a minute to clean yourself up. An endeavor that, in your current state, necessitates scrubbing your hands twice. Arousal and menstruation do not mix in a tidy fashion. Once finished, you wet down a washrag with warm water, tossing the softest hand towel you can find over your shoulder.

The light from the open door is just enough to see by. Flushed and still breathing ragged, Harvey lies with one arm slung over his eyes, pants still halfway to his knees. He is a wreck of sweat and oil and a frankly _impressive_ amount of come. He starts a little when you move his arm, blinking at the light. But then you draw the washcloth down the side of his face and he relaxes, trailing his fingers up and down your side as you clean him up.

"Good to me," he mutters again, words half-slurred with sleep.

"Always," you reply.

He flinches only a little when you reach his groin, his cock a tender-looking shade of red. You keep your touch gentle, tucking him back into his pajamas as you finish.

"Put them in the hamper," Harvey says, plucking at the towel. "I'll take care of them tomorrow."

"You sure?"

He nods, reaching up to tug at your sleeve. "Come to bed."

By the time you come back he's burrowed under the covers again. You curl up against his side again, finding the comfortable divot a little more easily this time. With a contented hum, Harvey rolls towards you, pulling you into his arms.

"You know, don't you?" His voice is soft and hoarse. Timid, almost. "Even if I can't say it. Tell me you _know."_

You find his hand, put it between you. Push the locket against his palm.

"I know, Harvey. I hope you know, too."

He sighs, a heavy but contented sound. "I do. Good night, sweetheart."

You kiss his chin. "Good night, Harvey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken so long to get this updated, but I do hope that it was worth the wait. This chapter took me an exceptionally long time to get right, or at least in any state that felt even passable. To everyone who's left comments and encouragements, or just re-read the hell out of this series for a bit of comfort in the past few months: Thank you. I'm not great at responding and for that I apologize, but hearing from you guys means a hell of a lot to me, especially now, and it does my heart good to know that this ever-growing disaster has been able to help anybody get through the day. 
> 
> Love you guys <3
> 
> ETA: After a bit of consideration, largely concerning length, I'm going to be wrapping up this fic here. The series will be continuing, of course, but this feels like the best and most natural place to let Referral end before it turns into another 20k+ word behemoth (lookin' at you, Trial Run). Hopefully I'll have more for you guys this month. Keep your heads up.


End file.
